Bruised But Not Broken
by TinkerBella7
Summary: I've just discovered The Musketeers from BBC and I adore it. I'm a long time D'Artagnan fan and a long time angst/whump fan. So this story is the start of many WHUMP D'ARTAGNAN fics.


D'Artagnan felt both wound up and utterly weary, his body feeling jolted as if with intoxication even as pain thrummed throughout. Though seated across a table from Porthos, he felt almost dizzy, floaty. But he fought the sensation, making himself focus as Porthos asked if he was interested in a hand of cards.

Since Athos was in the corner, drinking, and Aramis had slipped off somewhere, D'Artagnan agreed. It helped having something else to concentrate on other than how poorly he was feeling. A few glasses of wine and the pain even eased a bit. Enough so that he caught on quickly to the fact that Porthos was cheating. D'Artagnan amused himself by cheating as well, so that after a couple of hands he had claimed all of the other man's coin.

Porthos glared at D'Artagnan, obviously stunned to have lost. After a moment he narrowed his gaze and growled, "You cheated."

"As did you," D'Artagnan countered, openly smug about it. "Apparently I'm better at it."

"Brat," Porthos countered, looking resigned yet absurdly proud. "Another round then?" he asked, reaching for the cards and gathering them together into a practiced shuffle.

But D'Artagnan shook his head, regretting it as pain stabbed through his skull. He could truly state he hurt from head to toe now, although he was fairly certain he hadn't hit his head, or been hit there. Pushing to his feet he offered, "Perhaps another time. Thank you for the coin, though." Reaching out he attempted to gather up his winnings, only the floor beneath his feet suddenly tilted wildly and he stumbled.

Porthos lunged forward, grabbing D'Artagnan by the arm to steady him. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," D'Artagnan mumbled, eyes closed as he tried to breathe through a sudden wave of nausea, no doubt brought on by the dizziness that made him feel weak-kneed. But he worked through it, pulling away from Porthos' grasp. "Just tired," he stated, seeing the look of concern on the other man's face. "A good night's sleep will cure all. Goodnight." He slipped away before anything more could be said, missing the fact that Athos was watching him go, blue eyes clouded with worry.

Once outside, D'Artagnan slowly made his way back to his room. Exhaustion made his body feel heavy, as if he were dragging his feet every step of the way. The need and desire for revenge had fueled him, body and soul, for the past few days. But now that justice had been served and Athos was saved from being executed, the fire that had burned deep inside of D'Artagnan, pushing him through pain and exhaustion, had finally flickered out. He had nothing left.

By the time D'Artagnan entered the Bonnacieux house and reached the refuge of his room, every breath he pulled into his lungs felt like the stab of a knife. Food and sleep hadn't mattered, not when his Father's death had yet to be avenged. But now it was done and he felt like he was falling apart, piece by shattered piece. So he nearly whimpered in relief as he curled up on his bed. He was so tired and yet his mind would not give him peace.

He tried to think of happier times. To let the memories of his Father wash over him, sooth his soul so that he could find rest. Time seemed to tick by ever so slowly, but at east D'Artagnan was able to block out his pain and sadness and slip into slumber, only to be jerked awake by nightmares. His Father's blood slicking his hands and drowning his soul. It had been his idea to stop at the Inn. Had they travelled on to Paris, the rain be damned, Alexandre D'Artagnan would still be alive.

And so it was, come the early light of dawn, D'Artagnan was up. His body ached and his head felt as heavy as his heart, but he dragged himself out of bed and washed up before heading out in search of food. He wasn't the least bit hungry, but he recognized that the weakness he was feeling was likely hunger. If he ate something he was sure he would feel much better.

To his surprise, Constance was up and baking bread. She turned from the window, fingers dusted with flour, surprise on her face when she saw him.

"Good morning, Madame," D'Artagnan offered, taking note of how her hair glowed bright and red in the sunlight. She was a beautiful woman, and not even an aching head could distract him from that reality.

"Good morning, D'Artagnan," she replied, wiping her hands on a dish cloth as she moved closer. "Are you well? You look...ill."

D'Artagnan almost made the mistake of shaking his head at her, instead he stated firmly, "I am fine. Thank you for your concern." His intention was to step past her and be on his way, but D'Artagnan felt his knees suddenly buckle and he found himself pushed down into a nearby chair.

Constance stared at him, worry clouding her gaze. She seemed to be cataloging the way D'Artagnan hunched over in the chair, one hand pressed to his head, the other curled around his aching ribs. "You don't look fine to me," Constance huffed. In a whirl of skirts she turned away, returning a moment later with a cup of water. "Drink this." It was an order, not a request.

"Thank you," D'Artagnan whispered, actually quite grateful to accept the cool drink. It tasted almost sweet as it slid down his throat, making him feel less heated and nauseous. He prayed he wasn't getting sick. He had always been a hardy child, never succumbing to childhood illnesses, fevers or colds. Yet at this moment he felt empty and hollow, and the ache in his head made him feel nauseous. Swallowing a sigh, he tried desperately to will himself into feeling better, even as he rubbed at his temples with trembling fingers.

"You're warm," Constance announced, as she pressed the back of one hand to D'Artagnan's forehead.

The gesture startled him, making him jump, which made his ribs ache all the more. Forcing a smile, D'Artagnan gently brushed her hand aside. "I feel warm because your presence is as radiant as the sun, Madame."

Constance blushed then smacked his shoulder. "You are nothing more than a foolish boy who babbles nonsense," she insisted. But the pleased smile that curved her lips belied her scolding words.

"Foolish...perhaps," D'Artagnan allowed. "Yet I speak the truth, just the same." Reaching for her hand, he pressed a chaste kiss to her fingers before rising slowly to his feet. "I thank you for your assistance. I must bid you good day."

"Where are you going?" Constance queried, following D'Artagnan to the door.

He saw no reason not to tell her. "To the Garrison."

She looked startled. "Not to fight again!" It was more an exclamation than a question.

"To thank them," D'Artagnan softly replied. Although he was also hoping that he could fight with them, to work on his form and skill. To learn from a Musketeer would be to learn from the best.

"Thank them?" Constance echoed, obviously confused.

D'Artagnan took the time to explain, knowing that she would understand. "They helped me to avenge my Father's death, even after my accusations."

Constance nodded. "Well then...be safe."

"I shall." D'Artagnan offered a wave and then he was off. His journey was not swift and he had to stop and rest a moment or risk passing out. He told himself it was the heat of the day and not because he was feeling poorly.

At last he reached the Garrison and he found the men he sought seated around the table, eating breakfast. Porthos noticed him first and waved him over.

Grinning, Porthos commented, "You're up early, whelp."

"Farm boy," D'Artagnan reminded them, taking no offense.

"Sit and eat with us," Aramis invited. "There's plenty and you've earned a feast. You did well yesterday."

D'Artagnan neither sat nor indulged in the meal, instead he asked, "Well enough to ask a favor?" Maybe it was his sheer exhaustion, but he figured there was no time like the presence to make his request. All the more so since the Musketeers seemed to be in a good mood and were pleased with his contributions.

It was Athos who replied, "You lose nothing in asking."

"Will you train me?" D'Artagnan blurted out, before he lost his confidence.

"Train you?" Aramis countered, exchanging glances with the others.

D'Artagnan started to nod, a stab of pain in his temples reminding him not to do that. "I want to train to become a Musketeer."

Porthos was grinning. "I'd be happy to teach you to fight. And I promise not to break you.

"I'm tougher than I look," D'Artagnan protested, feeling the need to defend himself. Sure he wasn't as big and broad as Porthos, but that didn't mean he was breakable.

"It might be a good idea to eat something before we begin," Athos interjected, looking amused.

Which was all the confirmation D'Artagnan needed that they were agreeing to his request. "I'm not hungry," he stated, as he removed his dagger, sword and musket, laying them all on the table.

Aramis chuckled. "Eager, are we? I like that." He nudged Porthos. "I guess you're up."

"I guess I am." Jumping to his feet, Porthos removed his weapons as well, placing them next to D'Artagnan's. He then waved him towards the open area away from the table. They took a stance facing each other and Porthos took a moment to crack his knuckles. Then, without warning, he attacked.

D'Artagnan had been expecting such a move and he jumped, nimbly, aside before spinning around to deliver a kick to the bigger man's backside. They continued on this way, D'Artagnan managing to keep up mainly because he was flexible and fast. He knew if Porthos caught him, the man's brute strength would do him in. So, despite and aching head and sore ribs, D'Artagnan continued his dance around the Musketeer.

At one point he saw an opening and moved in, catching Porthos behind the knees so that the big man nearly toppled. Nearly. Porthos caught himself on one knee and surged upward, catching D'Artagnan in his midsection with one shoulder. As he stood to full height, D'Artagnan's feet left the ground.

Finding himself slung over Porthos' shoulde like a sack of potatoes, was not a good thing. His ribs were screaming in protest at the pressure, and suddenly he felt as if he could not catch his breath.

Unaware that anything was wrong, Porthos was bellowing his victory, parading across the compound with D'Artagnan as his prize. He roared with laughter, smacking the Gascon on his backside before dumping him into a haypile.

Aramis was applauding Porthos and Athos was looking on with amusement, until it registered with them all that D'Artagnan wasn't moving.

"Get up, lazy bones!" Porthos shouted, striding back over to the haypile and nudging at D'Artagnan's leg with the toe of one boot.

"I'm...up," D'Artagnan gasped, trying to ignore the pain in his ribs as he rolled to the other side. Sitting up took some effort and left him feeling dizzy.

It was in that moment that Athos and Aramis both realized something was wrong. They moved as one, reaching D'Artagnan at the same time, but before either could speak, Constance came running over.

She was red-faced and furious. "What are you doing?" she snapped, one fist thumping Aramis on the chest. "He's injured, you brutes!"

"Injured?" Porthos looked stunned.

"I'm fine," D'Artagnan interjected, making the attempt to rise to his feet and wobbling dangerously. He would have fallen had Aramis not grabbed him by the shoulders.

Grip firm, but gentle, Aramis queried, "Where are you hurt?"

D'Artagnan attempted to brush him off. "Do not listen to Madame Bonacieux. I'm fine."

"Fine? Really?" Constance wasn't about to let him get away with that. "Just this morning he near collapsed at my feet for the second time in as many days."

"She's exaggerating," D'Artagnan countered, desperately trying to will Constance to be quiet.

But she was too wound up and on a roll. "He hurt his ribs and kept fighting anyway. He's obviously in pain and exhausted. Feverish too."

Aramis picked up on the latter. "Feverish?" He pressed the back of one hand to D'Artagnan's face.

"Leave me be!" D'Artagnan protested, slapping the Musketeer's hand away. "I'm fine!" He did not want them thinking he was weak and easily broken. He needed their help if he was to fulfill his desire to become one of them. Pushing away from Aramis, D'Artagnan made to step out of the hay pile, only his legs refused to cooperate. He took one step and crumpled.

"D'Artagnan!" Constance cried out.

Porthos managed to catch him before he hit the ground. D'Artagnan was vaguely aware of being lifted, and he wanted to protest, but he couldn't seem to make a sound. He heard voices all around him, but they sounded more like buzzing than words as pain stabbed through his head like daggers. Darkness seeped it's way around him, dragging D'Artagnan down into warm silence. He embraced it.

Aramis tapped Porthos on the shoulder. "Take the boy to my room," he ordered.

"Is he going to be allright?" Constance asked, as they all followed in the big Musketeers' wake.

"I hope so," Aramis replied, before tipping his hat to Constance and racing ahead of Porthos up the stairs.

It was Athos who offered what comfort he could. "D'Artagnan is young and strong. I have no doubt but that he will be fine."

Constance didn't look convinced, but she nodded. "I hope you're right." She let Athos escort her up the steps and into the room, where Porthos was laying D'Artagnan carefully down on the bed.

"He's nothing but skin and bones," Porthos' commented, as he settled D'Artagnan's frame as comfortably as he could.

"I don't recall seeing him eat since he arrived here," Constance offered.

Aramis took note of her words, even as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed, his fingers unlacing D'Artagnan's jerkin before lifting the shirt and hissing at the sight of the deep, dark, mottled bruising that spread over most of the boy's left side. "That's got to hurt," he muttered, even as he pressed a firm hand against them. He felt D'Artagnan shift beneath his touch, whimpering softly.

Constance moved to his side, a gentle hand smoothing back D'Artagnan's hair. It seemed to calm him and he settled down without waking. Constance wasn't sure to if she should be grateful or worried. "How badly is he hurt?" she asked, eyeing the dark bruises that looked worse than they had the night before, when she had tried to wrap them for him.

"I don't believe anything is broken," Aramis replied, looking relieved. "He might have cracked his ribs though, given all the swelling. He's going to have to take it easy for a time."

"I made it worse, didn't I?" Porthos commented, regret mirrored in his dark eyes.

Suprisingly, it was D'Artagnan who replied. Or rather, mumbled, "Not y'r fault." His words were slurred together, but the meaning was clear. He didn't want Porthos to blame himself.

Athos eyed D'Artagnan with fond annoyance. "You should not have been fighting today," he scolded. "You could have caused yourself serious damage."

"Sorry," D'Artagnan fought to keep his eyes open. His side throbbed along with his head and he wanted nothing more than to slide back into oblivion, but instead he felt the need to apologize for making a nuisance of himself. So he made the attempt to sit up, only to find strong hands pressing him back down.

"Don't even think about moving," Aramis admonished him. "In fact, you're not to move from this bed for the next few days."

D'Artagnan blinked at Aramis in disbelief. "I...I can't stay here. This is your room."

Aramis nodded, looking amused. "Yes, it is. And my bed, which I am loaning to you while you recover."

"I have my own room," D'Artagnan argued, but it was a struggle to focus and speak. His body felt heavy, his words were becoming thick in his mouth.

"Sleep," Aramis whispered. "We'll talk later."

Far be it for D'Artagnan to argue with a Musketeer. He closed his eyes and let himself drift into slumber.

It was a day later that D'Artagnan woke up again. He opened bleary eyes to find Porthos splayed out in a chair beside the bed, snoring. In fact, he was pretty sure the snoring is what woke him up.

Moving cautiously, D'Artagnan sat up. Every part of his body ached, but he had needs to take care of. So he slid out of bed and did what needed to be done. He then collected his things and was nearly out the door when Porthos startled him.

"Going somewhere?" asked the big Musketeer, who had somehow managed to sneak up directly behind the young Gascon.

"Back to my room," D'Artagnan replied, trying to subtlely lean against the door for support. Porthos' sudden appearance had made him jump, which made his body ache more and he was feeling a bit dizzy again. But he wasn't about to mention that to the Musketeer. Forcing a smile, D'Artagnan stated, "I'm feeling much better now."

Porthos looked amused as he moved to stand in front of the farm boy. "Do you?" He studied D'Artagnan from head to toe, not looking the least bit convinced.

D'Artagnan got the distinct feeling that Porthos was setting him up in some way. But the ache in his head, along with his ribs, made it hard to concentrate. "Shouldn't I?" he countered, confusion making him feel off balance. Or maybe it was his actual balance that was at fault, because all of the sudden D'Artagnan felt himself tilting sideways.

"Whoa, easy there!" Porthos jumped into motion, gripping D'Artagnan by the shoulders and practically carrying him back over to the bed where he made him lie down again.

"I'm fine," D'Artagnan argued, only it was difficult to make his point when he didn't even have the ability to sit up on his own. Although lying down did feel nice and it would be so easy to just close his eyes and drift back to sleep again.

Which, apparently, was exactly what he did. Because the next time D'Artagnan came to awareness, Aramis was sitting beside him, polishing his short sword.

Seeing D'Artagnan's eyes flutter open, Aramis stated the obvious. "You're awake."

"Apparently," D'Artagnan whispered, his voice hoarse as his throat felt dry as dust.

"Have a sip of wine." Aramis scooped up a glass and eased D'Artagnan up enough to drink a bit. "Better?"

D'Artagnan nodded, taking note of the fact that his head felt much better. The stabbing pain had dulled to a barely there ache. "Much," he replied, his voice clearer and less husky. He even risked sitting up all the way, only to hiss as his ribs protested the motion.

Aramis shook a warning finger at him. "You're going to sore for a few days. You need to take it easy. But first things first." He moved to the table in the corner and returned with a mug, which he held out. "Drink this. It's soup. Madame Bonnacieux brought it for it. It's still warm."

"Constance was here?" D'Artagnan was both surprised and pleased with a dash of confused thrown into the mix.

"She was," Aramis confirmed. "And she said she would be by later to check on you."

D'Artagnan felt suddenly overwhelmed by emotion. He had just met Constance and yet she had willingly risked her life to help him find the man who killed his father. The same man who had nearly caused Athos to be executed. Not that he shared the blame for that alone. D'Artagnan had bought into the lies and had accused Athos himself, adding fuel to the fire. But there had been a happy ending, of sorts. For which he was grateful. So why did he suddenly feel like weeping?

Aramis had been watching D'Artagnan and he moved to place a strong hand on his shoulder. "Are you all right? Are you in pain?"

"No pain," D'Artagnan whispered. At least not physical pain. His heart felt heavy though. "I just...I...I don't know..." He trailed off, at a total loss of how to explain himself. But then he found himself blurting out a simple question. "Why?"

"Why what?" Aramis sat back, looking confused.

It took a moment for D'Artagnan to figure out the best way the Musketeer understand what he needed to know. "You don't know me. Any of you. I came here to kill Athos to avenge my Father's death. I attacked him, and you. And yet, you're helping me now. All of you. I don't understand why."

Aramis grinned, understanding glowing in his eyes. "It's quite simple, D'Artagnan. You helped us. Without you we never would have found the means to save Athos. We're just returning the favor. It's what we do."

"I'm grateful." And there was no way D'Artagnan could fully express just how grateful he was. "I don't know how I will ever repay all of you. Although giving you your bed back might be a start." With those words, D'Artagnan made another attempt to stand, only to find himself thwarted yet again.

"There is no need of repayment," Aramis insisted, even as he pressed D'Artagnan back into the pillows. He retrieved the mug of soup and pressed it into the Gascon's hands. "Drink this, then rest some more." He watched D'Artagnan do his bidding before moving to grab a chair, that he settled into next to the bed. "Understand, D'Artagnan. It was not just your body that was injured. Losing your Father the way you did hurt your heart and your soul. It will take time for them to heal. More than you realize. So rest now. Let yourself gather your strength. Let yourself heal."

Locking eyes with the Musketeer, D'Artagnan could see his sincerity. He could also see them some day becoming true friends and he wanted that. He wanted all that was being offered to him. "I will rest," he allowed, eyes twinkling over the mug of soup. "For one more day." He wasn't used to being bedridden. Being still did not set well with him. But D'Artagnan understood what Aramis was saying, so he would take a moment to rest so that he could gather all the pain that coursed through his body and his mind, and stuff it all into a box, locking it away for good. He promised himself that tomorrow would be that day.

"Fair enough," Aramis replied, chuckling. He took the half empty mug and set it on the floor so he could grab the blankets and settle them over D'Artagnan. "You are stronger than you know, young D'Artagnan. Never doubt that. And, if you do, I promise to remind you."

"Bruised, but not broken," D'Artagnan replied, the words more mumbled than spoken, for he was already sliding back into slumber.

Aramis ruffled his hair. "Indeed," he whispered.

But D'Artagnan was already wrapped in warm darkness and sweet dreams.

THE END


End file.
